


A certain je ne sais quoi

by grelleswife



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: An's bi awakening, Bisexual Female Character, But everything is consensual, Cuddling, F/F, First Kiss, Heavy Petting, I took the Red Theater doujin and ran with it, Mild Drunkenness, Sapphic Sutcliff Week 2019, Trans Female Character, female pronouns for Grelle, sort-of canon, wine and romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 08:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20239810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grelleswife/pseuds/grelleswife
Summary: What is the special something that draws An inexorably to Grelle? An evening alone with the reaper forces Madame Red to confront her true feelings for her partner in crime.





	A certain je ne sais quoi

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the "dresses" prompt for Sapphic Sutcliff Week 2019
> 
> je ne sais quoi (French): literally, "I do not know what." Something (such as an appealing quality) that cannot be adequately described or expressed.
> 
> This work was inspired by a one-shot from Nijishitsuji (Rainbow Butler), the official collection of Kuroshitsuji doujinshi, entitled "Red Theater." In the one-shot, Grelle tries on one of Madame's dresses while An is out shopping (the reader eventually learns that she was buying Grelle confectionery to celebrate their anniversary as Jack the Ripper) and is scolded by Madame upon the noblewoman's return. Of course, I do not pretend that my own fic is canon in any way, shape, or form.
> 
> Though both Grelle and Madame are a bit tipsy here, there is no extreme drunkenness, and the "action" is confined to kissing and cuddling.

“Now a woman with a dress is a frightening and powerful thing.”

—from “Charming,” _Natasha, Pierre, and the Great Comet of 1812_

An was irate that Grelle “borrowed” her dress because she wore it without permission—at least, that was the story she told herself time and again, as if repetition could somehow make the lie ring true. She hadn’t bothered to notice how stunning Grelle looked in crimson ruffles and black lace, or the inexplicable tenderness she felt when those strong arms encircled her, or the sensation kindled within her when Grelle rested her head against her bosom. An insisted to herself that she was unmoved by the sight of her butler and partner in crime in a dress, regardless of how the recollection made her blood sing strange, wild alleluias. Even when Grelle was away from her, working for that mysterious organization she referred to as “the dispatch,” visions of her ran through An’s mind, a reel of film looping over and over, beguiling her in ways that she did not understand.

Perhaps that was why, one evening, she offered Grelle that same dress as a present. “I shouldn’t have been so harsh with you earlier,” she apologized gruffly. Grelle had promptly put it on, of course, and almost cried for happiness when she realized that An had had it altered to accommodate her unique measurements. “I couldn’t have asked for a better mistress,” Grelle whispered rapturously as she stared at her reflection in one of Madame Red’s mirrors.

An was ravaged by the reaper’s beauty, a flame that refused to die, consuming her from the inside out.

_What _is _this? Why can’t I catch my breath when she smiles that way?_

_ <strike>What have you wrought in me, Grelle?</strike> _

“Why don’t you stay a while and share a bottle of wine with me?” The question passed An’s lips with astounding ease. Grelle, never one to disparage the fruit of the vine, was only too happy to oblige. Thus, the two were soon reclining together on an opulent sofa, drinking and exchanging idle chit chat. After a few glasses, both quickly slid into that merry stage of early inebriation that lends a sparkle to the eye and cheer to the heart.

“Goodness me, you’ve gotten so _red_, dear,” Grelle teased, brushing her fingertips over An’s flushed cheekbones. To her chagrin, An’s blush deepened. Surely it was just the wine making her this uncommonly warm.

“You’re one to talk!” she scoffed, anxious to hide her consternation. Grelle’s face and neck had indeed turned quite rosy. “I’d expect death to handle her alcohol better.”

Grelle hiccuped. “ ‘Scuse me,” she tittered, spacing out her syllables. “Most un-la-dy-like. We reapers feeeeel our spirits just like you.”

“Clearly,” An remarked dryly.

_ <strike>She’s adorable. How is such a bloodthirsty killer capable of being absolutely adorable?</strike> _

“That dress looks spectacular on you,” An murmured apropos of nothing. Unlike the stale compliments she was forced to pay to trussed-up society women within the stifling London salons, this statement was heartfelt.

_ <strike>She’s more of a lady than the whole lot of those dull creatures. They can’t hold a candle to her. My red reaper. My Grelle.</strike> _

“It flatters that pretty figure of yours,” she added impulsively as she placed her hand over Grelle’s own, tongue and inhibitions loosened by her recent libation. Did An imagine hearing the reaper’s breath catch in her throat?

_I’m flirting with her_, An realized. A droning voice in the back of her mind was ranting, in a state of high dudgeon, that this was such a grave impropriety as to be inconceivable. Since Grelle Sutcliff was a woman, An should not want her.

_ <strike>But I want.</strike> _

_ <strike>Oh, how I want.</strike> _

Besides, thanks in part to those glasses of wine, the voice was easily ignored.

Wait. From their conversations, it was quite apparent that Grelle was enamored of men, preferably of the cold and unattainable variety. Would she take offense at An’s excessive…familiarity? But Grelle did not pull away. Hesitantly, she interlaced her fingers with An’s, inching closer.

“You flatter me, darling,” she giggled tipsily.

“Y’know, I’ve never met a woman quite like you,” An informed Grelle. The immortal tilted her head to the side inquisitively, and something shivered within An’s chest like leaves caught in a gust of high wind.

“How so?” Grelle drawled, smiling like the sphinx, all unsolved riddles and hidden promise.

“I…” An extended her left arm, fingers tentatively seeking to seize the word that her mind failed to dredge up. “You…you have…a certain _je ne sais quoi_.”

“Mmmm,” Grelle hummed noncommittally, though it seemed that a flame flickered into life behind her hooded eyes. A trick of the candlelight? “I s’ppose that’s only fitting. Those who try to define and categorize a woman might as well attempt to enchain the mist or bottle lightning.”

“Though, to be fair,” Grelle continued, resting her head in her right hand, elbow on the sofa, “you have a _je ne sais quoi_ of your own, Madame.”

“Please, call me An,” the noblewoman interjected. “It’s just the two of us. All the props and costumes can be stowed away for tonight.”

“Very well…_An_.” Grelle endowed the lone syllable with a wealth of import, like a term in a forgotten language known only to her, caressing it with her tongue like a rare, exotic sweet that she found very much to her taste.

_Stop imagining things, An_.

_ <strike>So what if looking at her makes you sore, an ache behind your breastbone that you can’t ever hope to explain?</strike> _

_It means nothing. _

_ <strike>But I want, I want. What a wonderful anguish. Grelle.</strike> _

_These desires are wrong._

_ <strike>But they don’t </strike> _ <strike>feel_ wrong._</strike>

“Now, where was I?” Grelle mumbled, glancing down fuzzily at their joined hands, subtly tightening her grip. “Ah, yes…the unnameable thing that makes you special to me. You’re striking, certainly. Ravishing. Unafraid. The type of beauty that makes no apologies, that’s sharp enough to _cut_. You’re like me—red incarnate. I think it comes out most when you kill. You are no mere woman at such times, but a goddess. A worthy peer.”

_It doesn’t mean anything, An. It’s only the wine, and the hour. STOP HOPING!_

“You make me _burn_, at those times, An. Dyed in crimson, eyes blazing like the sun, or the pits of hell. All strength and anger and _passion_. You _excite_ me so.”

That which dared not speak its name hovered in the air between the two of them, like the resonance of the final chord that lingers even after the choir has fallen silent.

“Would you like me to show you something even more exciting?” An whispered, heart pounding in her ears as she contemplated those chartreuse eyes. She brought her face to Grelle’s, still clasping the reaper’s hand. She assumed that Grelle would turn her head, or demand to know what the devil she thought she was doing. On the contrary, however, Grelle stayed put, countenance shining in hopeful expectancy.

_ <strike>I could lose myself in those eyes.</strike> _

_But you musn’t—_

_And I shall._

She kissed Grelle.

It was not a sin, but an awakening, as right and natural as the silent unfurling of a rose in full bloom. Grelle brought her right hand to cup An’s face, and An marveled at how soft Grelle’s lips felt against her own. The reaper was slightly cool to the touch (Grelle's kind always carried a bit of death’s chill with them), but not unpleasantly so. An found herself enveloped in the floral fragrance of Grelle’s perfume, mixed with the warm scent, almost like cinnamon, that clung to the goddess’s skin.

When at last they parted, Grelle regarded her with immense fondness. “I was right,” she laughed gleefully. “You really are like me—you have the sort of heart capable of feeling passion for a man and love for a woman.”

An blinked in stupefaction, unable to fully process what had just transpired. “Wait…what?” she murmured incredulously.

“Really, An,” Grelle chided her. “I was head over heels from the first time I met you, my red darling. If you hadn’t been so coy, I’d have bedded you in a trice, but I realized you might need a little time.”

“But how did you know…”

“People _like us_ have…ah…dare I say it…a certain _je ne sais quoi_.”

An could do nothing but quake for joy as Grelle affectionately petted her hair.

“You are quite the accomplished kisser, An,” Grelle noted approvingly, “but I don’t think we got it ex-_act_-ly right.” A flash of blindingly white teeth. “Let’s try again.”

Lashes fluttering against her face, tongue nimble and eager in her mouth.

“Again”

Elegant, sharp-nailed hands worshiping her, caressing every inch of her back.

“Again.”

It was as if kissing was an art that the two of them were inventing together, marvelous and new. Grelle was filling her up like a wine glass, but An still craved more. Almost without realizing, she was reciting the reaper’s name like a prayer.

“Grelle, Grelle, Grelle, oh Grelle”

“Poppet. My dear An,” the reaper sighed contentedly, feverishly kissing her painted cheeks and vermillion mouth. “Drink of me, taste of me to your heart’s content. I’ll always have more to give. Let’s paint a new shade of red together.”

An buried her face in the crook of Grelle’s neck, stroking her lush, soft hair.

“I love you,” she confessed.

_Yes, that’s what I feel. This is love_.

“I’m sorry I took so long.”

“I love you, too, my sweet,” Grelle was swift to respond. “Not to fret—we’ll make up for lost time in the coming nights.” A suggestive grin. “I’m sure you’ll find still more ways to excite me.”

“Oh, I shall,” An laughed, “and I think you’ll find me very much to your liking, Grelle Sutcliff.” The reaper trembled, swallowing hard. “I look forward to it,” Grelle declared, her voiced laced with anticipation.

Soon, Grelle would have to leave for the night (“What with our escapades, I’m falling a _bit _behind at work, dear, and my supervisors will be cross with me if I don’t put my nose to the grindstone tomorrow. Most tedious.”). For now, however, the ladies cuddled drowsily, a pair of scarlet women as perfectly suited for one another as two halves of the same heart.

**Author's Note:**

> "That which dared not speak its name": I'm sure this phrase needs no introduction. A reference to "the love that dare not speak its name," from the poem "Two Loves" by Oscar Wilde's paramour Lord Alfred Douglas. The saying is usually interpreted as a euphemism for homosexual love. I headcanon Grelle and An as bi, but who turns down a chance to quote something connected to Oscar Wilde?
> 
> "So what if looking at her makes you sore, an ache behind your breastbone that you can’t ever hope to explain? " and "Grelle was filling her up like a wine glass": derived from the following quote from Tipping the Velvet by Sarah Waters. 'When I see her,' I said...It's like I am filling up, like a wine-glass when it's filled with wine...She makes me sore, here.' I placed a hand upon my chest, upon the breast-bone.'


End file.
